The Frost Identity
by yimmy-kins
Summary: XMen, Bourne Identity Crossover. She woke up with two bullet wounds, a terrible case of amnesia, and an all encompassing fear. A little voice from the depths of her soul whispered one word: Run.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: If the title hasn't given it away, this fic is a crossover between the X-Men and _The Bourne Identity_. There's been massive liberties taken with both continuities. Just warning you. As always, feedback of any kind is appreciated!

* * *

_**The Frost Identity**_

by Yimmy

_Chapter 1_

* * *

Another sunrise meant another day on the Mediterranean's restless seas. The crew grumbled as they sipped from steaming mugs of coffee and tea. Not even 5 AM and the men were already looking forward to lunch. To the sight, the captain shook his head as he heaved a heavy cord of rope around his broad shoulders.

"Lazy bastards," he scoffed in his thick Sicilian accent.

Back in his day, men would already be up and about at this time, ready to haul in the morning's first catch. Times changed though, and with it, the roughened, hearty edges of real fishermen. These pups had no idea what it was like to work these waters in the aftermath of World War II. They knew nothing of desperate ex-soldiers who resorted to piracy or the scores of dead marine life thanks to spilled oil from the guts of battleships. They knew nothing of families starving, heirlooms being sold, and desperation born from weeks without pay. They had no clue how kindly the sea treated them these peaceful, bountiful days.

The old trawler jolted, shaking the captain from his woolgathering. There were baits to set, nets to fill, and pockets to be lined. Another sunrise, another day, nothing special.

"Man overboard!"

The captain stiffened. He immediately assumed one of the crew--one of the young ones--had fallen. Probably horsing around, tried to show off, and then slipped. He'd seen such stupid antics before, and every time, a few more hairs on his balding head went gray.

He never looked forward to telling a mother her son drowned.

With quick strides belying a man his age, he raced to the ship's aft. He immediately took stock of his crew, nine in total, and blinked. Yes, there were nine people leaning over the rails. Including himself, that made ten which was how many who were suppose to be on the ship. Man overboard? Well, at least it wasn't any of his own.

"What are all you imbeciles standing there for?" he bellowed while throwing on a lifejacket. "Stop the engines, lower the dingy, and stop staring! We have a man to save!"

Honestly, kids these days. What kind of seaman stood and stared while one of their brothers lay at the water's mercy?

"Woman," one of the young ones corrected. "And I think she's dead."

Woman? Dead? "How the hell would you know? Get your lazy butts moving!"

Goddamn dense as bricks kids.

* * *

I blinked at the darkness. Steady beeps accompanied my heart's beat. A rough, uncomfortable blanket kept me unreasonably warm and annoyingly itchy. A door let a flood of light in. There were tubes, tubes everywhere, all over my arms, some on my neck, one even to my private regions. My throat burned as if scrapped raw by sandpaper and my joints felt as stiff as a corpse's.

Rising above my senses, however, were voices. I heard them as if a crowd stood next to me, together jumbled with only a few snippets of intelligible words. Tired eyes whipped around as best they could to find the source. Hidden speakers? Perhaps the television? Was it under her bed? In the closet?

Actually, "Who am I?"

The voices offered no answers.

My own voice sounded foreign, a splash of English amidst the tidal wave of Italian. English meant either American or British, but then what business did I have in understanding Italian? What was going on? How did I get to this hospital? This was a hospital, right?

And why did I have the world's hugest headache?

Willing myself to sit, I bit back a gasp at the sudden pain lighting my back and shoulder on fire. Some sheer miracle allowed me to not scream, so instead I let out a pathetic moan. As tears trickled down the corners of my eyes, I reached out for the clipboard at the end of the bed. It took some determined stretching and a great deal of pain tolerance, but in the end, I hooked the clipboard with my trembling index finger.

At least I knew four things about myself: female, English speaking, stubborn, and masochistic.

The clipboard had my "medical history." Name: Unknown. Address: Unknown. Date of Birth: Unknown. Patient presents with critical blood loss due to two gunshot wounds to the upper left shoulder region, hypothermia from being immersed in the ocean, and blunt head trauma. CT scan shows signs of intracranial swelling. Surgeon found RF chip imbedded into patient's left shoulder, believed it was bullet shrapnel. Chip removed then scanned. Results pending.

Stupid piece of paper was about as helpful as a kick in the face. Frustrated, I threw the clipboard against the wall and buried my head in my hands. A nagging sensation told me I should've been doing something important, but my brain refused to cooperate. All it could do was hear these voices that weren't there and hurt like it was hung-over on the world's cheapest alcohol.

"Miss, how are you feeling?"

Italian. Nurse. 5'9" tall. Late thirties. Relatively tight, light blue scrubs. Hands at her sides. Not a threat at all. On the off chance she was, the IV line could be used as a deadly weapon.

Hold the phone. An IV line as a deadly weapon? What kind of twisted thought process was that? How would you even use one as a deadly weapon?

Well, naturally strangulation. Barring that, ripping the needle out of my arm and stabbing the nurse in the eye would be a viable-

"What happened to me?" I whimpered, afraid of these violent images.

_Panic. Don't understand English. Maybe Doctor Giovannati would know what to do. Probably get some food for her too._

As the nurse's footsteps echoed down the hall, I realized she hadn't said a word beyond her initial greeting. I listened to the voices surrounding me, instead now focusing, my eyes peering out and trying to listen to the next person who walked by.

_... meal. Have to turn him before he gets a..._

_Stupid visiting family. Don't they know people on dialysis should be left alone?!_

_I want to go home. What time is it? Fifteen minutes till break..._

I was listening to their thoughts. I should be surprised, ecstatic even, but I failed to even be enthusiastic. Somehow, this must've been normal for me, so normal that even without my memory, I didn't find it exhilarating or frightening. It felt like a given, natural perhaps.

But the constant droning of the masses pissed me off.

Yearning for some peace and quiet, I struggled off the bed and dragged myself to the bathroom. Unfortunately, I didn't consider the things attached to me--pulsoxcimter, waste bag, a host of tubes--before moving. Painful pulling and a bunch of crashes sent my heart racing, and right then, I wished no one would notice me. I waited for nurses and doctors to come rushing in, ask me if I was ok, tell me to lie back down.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

Not even the nurse who went to get Doctor Giovannati returned. I made my way to the bathroom, this time taking much more care in not hurting myself. As I locked the door and turned on the light, I saw a blonde woman staring back at me with a steely, icy gaze. She... and I mean, I... I looked worse for the wear, my cheeks ashen, my lips chapped, and my hair a tangled mess.

At the risk of sounding narcissistic, I was rather fetching despite my disheveled appearance. Even my baggy hospital gown couldn't hide my ample breasts or completely offset what seemed like an impressive physique. I ran a hand over my firm washboard stomach; my other one cupped said breasts, curious as to whether they were real or not.

A girl could wake up to less welcoming visions.

The smirk I let out must've tickled something in the back of my mind, because the next time I focused on the mirror, I saw myself dressed in an elegant, white evening gown. Long gloves encased my hands and forearms while a diamond necklace plunged into my cleavage. My ruby red lips puckered up as my hips swayed to and fro.

My mirror image leaned forward and breathed in a harsh, sultry tone, "_Give us a kiss, baby_."

"Miss, are you in the restroom?"

As suddenly as it appeared, my pampered self winked out of existence. Those five words, "Give us a kiss, baby," sent chills up my spine. My shaky knees wouldn't hold and sent me collapsing onto the filthy ground. A kaleidoscope of people and places assaulted me, each passing by too fast for me to grasp. I felt like God was giving me the Cliff's Notes version of my life, only He decided to put this particular video on fast-forward instead of play. I struggled, struggled with the half-understood remembrances and the shocking imagery splashed against moments of peace and solitude.

My breaths grew short and ragged.

I grabbed at fistfuls of my hair.

The stitches on my back tore but I didn't care.

"Miss, I'm going to unlock the door. The doctor needs to see you."

The nurse and doctor found me sprawled out on the filthy ground, hyperventilating, tearing at myself, and bleeding. I gritted my teeth together and said in perfect Italian, "Leave me the fuck alone."

Both stepped back, shocked at the venom in my voice. Neither expected this kind of response, and as for me? A sick wisp of satisfaction warmed my jumbled mind. I liked their fear and my strength. For brief second, I was in control and it felt damned good.

Then reality came crashing back in: I was weak, I couldn't remember a thing about myself, and I was essentially at their mercy. The doctor acted first and pulled me up by the arm. As I tried to flail at him, the nurse took my other arm. Together, they escorted me back into the room like an uncooperative prisoner. The more I struggled, the more a memory tried to come to the forefront. My hoarse screams reminded me of... of...

_"Will you commit yourself entirely to this program?"_

_Me, my hands cuffed behind my back, and him, a man with a ponytail and a menacing aura. "Yes," I replied._

_"Are you sure? This is the point of no return. You will die, and in your place will be someone devoid of mercy. You will exist only for this program, for Hellfire."_

_I tried to shrug off the people holding my shoulders still. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."_

_"Well then, let us begin."_

_Those rock steady hands yanked me backwards, but before I could even scream, they pulled a hood over my head and snapped a collar around my neck. The next thing I knew, I was drowning._

My screams stopped. I twisted out of their grasps. My left leg kicked the heart monitor into the room's door, closing it. A sharp, precise chop caught the doctor in his neck. He immediately clutched his throat and began wheezing. My free hand grabbed the bed sheets and wrapped it around the nurse's head. The cloth muffled her surprised yelp as I viciously took her to the ground. A quick elbow to the temple silenced her.

The doctor was still struggling for breath by the time I could pay him more attention. My racing heart slowed, and with it, the adrenaline subsided. I expected a dose of disgust at watching a man die, but I couldn't summon the wherewithal to care. I simply watched, not quite bored, certainly not depressed, and strangely not even excited.

One look told me his clothes wouldn't fit me. The nurse's would though. I began stripping her, but I stopped myself. Where was I going? I was in a hospital, my shoulder hurt like nothing else, and I didn't even know who I was. This was where I belonged until I got better or someone came to get me.

I winced at the idea of someone coming to get me.

_"Give us a kiss, baby."_

Teeth clenched and head thumping, I spun around ready for a fight, but all I got was a closed door. If I could've, I would've leapt out of my skin. Those words and the associated sultry, seductive voice put the fear of God into me. Running, if just to get away from that voice, sounded like a fine plan.

I resumed stripping the nurse.

The scrubs were a size too big but the shoes fit fine. Taking care not to cause myself further pain, I hoisted her into the bed, turned her on her side, and pulled the blankets up. On cursory inspection, she'd pass for a sleeping patient. Now the dead doctor, he required more attention. Two patients in one bed would look odd, so that left me with stuffing him in the coat closet or the bathroom.

The coat closet got chosen because it was closer.

I rummaged through the doctor's pockets. Keys to a BMW. An ID badge. A PDA-cell phone. A wallet with a healthy amount of cash inside. A small, thin voice recorder. Why a voice recorder?

I hit the play button. "Thursday, 6:47 PM. Patient is a 27 year old female named Tasha Snell. She is under observation for heat exhaustion after-"

Fast forward. "Thursday, 7:12 PM. Patient is a 68 year old Asian male named Liu Tran. Post-surgical for his-"

Smart man. He'd visit with his patients, record his observations, then transcribe his notes when he had time. Fast forward again. "Thursday, 7:31 PM. Patient is a female, name and age are unknown. Our mystery patient's wounds are healing well as of last check up. Lab reports are back showing no signs of infection. The RF chip was read and displayed '1274002319' along with the Swiss National Bank Insignia. Nurse reports that patient is now conscious."

So my instincts told me to run? Fine, at least now I had a place to run to.

* * *

The Manhattan skyline carved a niche for itself through the blood red horizon. Inside the world's tallest and most majestic buildings worked proud men and women, tireless in their pursuit for whatever their superiors wanted. Some worked on investments, others cutting edge projects, but only a select few got to pursue less tangible goals like national security.

"Director Shaw?"

Engrossed with his laptop, Sebastian Shaw didn't even look up at his assistant, Tessa. "Mm," he grunted.

"We have confirmation: the target was not killed."

If he was angry, he didn't show it. All he did was continue typing. "What happened?"

Used to her boss' terse words, Tessa stepped forward to lay the file on his desk. "The agent sent to do the assassination was discovered prematurely. There was a confrontation, our agent tried to escape, and then she reportedly disappeared into the Mediterranean Sea."

The constant tapping of the keyboard stopped. "Do we have her body?"

"No, sir."

"Do we know exactly why and how she failed the mission?"

"No, sir."

"Call our men in Italy and have them monitor the situation as close as possible. Reconnaissance, re-evaluate, and report back to me when you have additional facts."

"Yes, sir."

Just as she turned to leave, he added, "Activate the Inner Circle as well."

A hesitant "Yes, sir" followed the order.

* * *

- _To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Frost Identity_**

by Yimmy

_Chapter 2_

* * *

I'd been here before. Cottages and roads looked too familiar. I took the correct turns without even glancing at my maps. I thought the feeling would pass as I drove further north away from Italy and into Switzerland, but it didn't. My subconscious guided me while my consciousness frayed my nerves with its incessant belief of impending danger.

Through the countryside and wineries I went, never faltering, never straying, only taking breaks when I absolutely had to. At my first stop, I broke the doctor's PDA in half and flushed it down the toilet. The act seemed quieted my paranoia like a slab of meat quieting ravenous dogs. I'd bought new clothes--a black wool coat, a white cashmere sweater, and dark blue jeans--in Ancona, miles and miles away from the hospital. While scanning the radio stations, I heard no news about a missing nurse and a dead doctor, so I assumed my deeds remained undiscovered. I changed license plates four different times, each one proclaiming itself from another country in the European Union. I cut my long blonde hair to shoulder length.

Nothing made me feel safe.

What kind of person was I to do these things so naturally? Killing, hiding, stealing--none of it surprised or challenged me. Languages rolled off my tongue, one moment Polish, another Russian, then Swedish. I knew so much, yet when it came to myself, I had no clue. A name? A home? Family? Friends? Phone number? Nothing, as if I had no past worth mentioning beyond a Swiss bank account.

Well, maybe it wasn't. Maybe I was a remorseless serial killer wanted all across Europe for a host of grizzly murders. Maybe I was a soldier of fortune without a country. Maybe I was a high priced whore who managed to be her own boss by being deadly and beautiful. Maybe I should leave my past behind and start anew. Maybe that was the only way to kill the demons hounding my every step.

Ha. Wishful thinking. If my fragmented memories were anything to go by, someone somewhere spent a lot of time teaching, molding, and making me. I was a lost asset. Now, was I insignificant enough to be thrown away or was I too valuable to be left to my own devices?

The nauseating feeling in my stomach answered that question for me. I wouldn't be running if I wasn't scared, and this fear was so visceral, so ingrained, so real that even without an idea who I was running from, I still ran like a wounded animal.

As I glanced into the rearview mirror, a pair of glowing red eyes burrowed into me. Black hair billowed about, shielding the rest of the face. Despite not seeing a mouth, I could've sworn the lady smiled.

_"Give us a kiss, baby."_

Headlights flashed ahead. A blaring horn made me gasp. Without thinking, I pulled the emergency brake up and swerved, narrowly bypassing the truck which would've smashed me into oblivion. I looked back into the rearview again and saw neither black haired woman nor trailing cars behind me. My immediate reaction was to pull over onto the roadside to collect myself, but then I saw the sign.

Welcome to Zurich.

Zurich--Switzerland's answer to New York, home of Street Parade, FC Zurich, the Swiss Stock Exchange, and the Swiss National Bank. Pushing my near-death experience aside, I sped the BMW up and plunged myself toward the city and its bank, toward the only link to my past. So I might've been chasing a life not worth living, but I needed to know.

Part of it was curiosity. Most of it was survival.

The voices, other people's thoughts mingling with my own, wouldn't leave me alone. Any populated place flooded me with a migraine inducing, non sequitur garbage. That damned "Give us a kiss, baby" still made me want to scream and tear my hair out. Too many problems, too many unknowns, and I pinned my sanity on account number 1274002319.

By the time I parked, 9:30 AM had rolled around. I'd been awake for ten hours and driving for seven of those. My shoulder and back tended to remind me they were still hurt, but the pain had dulled. I could almost feel myself mending judging by the incessant itches, but that might've been in my head.

A lot of things were in my head.

Cars zoomed by, uncaring about the piled up snow. Despite the bitter cold, pedestrians walked about. On reflex, I scanned the bank for security cameras, of which I found a handful. Fancy vinyl awnings adjourned each of the large windows on this six story building. An out of shape guard patrolled the front entrance while muttering... muttering...

_"Goddamn Hans, keeping me on this shit duty. If I hear one more person say a cheery 'Merry Christmas' I'm going to take my baton and cave their face in..."_

Another mental voice chimed in, _"... APB, who needs them? In Rome no less? Ach, those imbeciles just want someone to take pity on them and do their work. Stupid Italians haven't done a smart thing since surrendering World War II."_

I locked onto the cop ambling down the street. An APB from Rome all the way in Zurich... I wasn't taking any chances. Too much of a coincidence that. Unless someone had a reason, why spread the news here? I could almost hear the smug pessimist in me say, "See? I told you so."

I braced myself and got out of the car. Useless thoughts entered me, mucking up an already noisy sidewalk. My hammering migraine worsened that tiny unbearable bit. Had to fight to walk, to stay alert, to turn my head the right way so the cameras wouldn't catch my face. My eyes watered as I fought to not listen to everyone's problems, inane comments, and stressed out mutterings.

The tall man across the street: _"Check out the tits on the blonde."_

The old woman walking beside me: _"This weather is killing my aching knee!"_

The cop still ambling down the street: _"APB my ass!"_

The noise grew overpowering and wouldn't shut the hell up about their damned knees and tits!

"Miss, are you alright?"

The guard in front of the Swiss National Bank peered at me with worry. I hadn't realized I was glaring menacingly at the tall man across the street who was now stumbling around like an idiot and clutching his temples. The reaction surprised me because the more I imagined inflicting pain on him, the more he seemed to writhe and moan.

"Miss? Did that crazy boy over there try something on you?"

Interesting and a dash disconcerting. "No," I said in Swedish, "just appalled some people like to get drunk so early in the morning."

He cracked a knowing smile, tipped his cap, and opened the door for me.

Inside the bank was worse than outside. Here, so many tethered on their emotional brink. A thick tension washed over me in addition to the almost deafening mental gibberish. While on the streets I could pick out who thought what, in here, I had no clue. Everyone was mentally screaming, the mashed-up cacophony making me want to curl up into a ball and never see another soul again. Despite the desire to give up, my feet kept moving to the bank teller. Felt like an out of body experience, what with me certain I wasn't in the mood to continue and my legs still working anyway.

What kind of person had this kind of determination in excess? What did I ever put myself through to condition my body to this point? God, I must've been the most stubborn bitch on the face of the planet.

A young, chipper girl with too much rouge beamed at me from behind the counter. "Welcome to the Swiss National Bank. How may I help you today?"

This chaotic aura swirled about her like a raging fire. She was... confusing to say the least, sort of like staring at the sun without sunglasses. A cesspool of unnecessary thoughts and emotions bled from her, unchecked, unfiltered, and exactly like a young child's. "Could you pull up my account for me? The number is 1274002319."

"Of course!" Following the handful of taps on her keyboard, she chirped, "And this would be the safe deposit box, yes?"

Add this to my ever-growing list of questions: how could anyone be so happy this early in the morning? Suppressing the urge to shudder at her sugary demeanor, I nodded, wishing my silence would get her to shut up.

No luck on that idea. "Excellent! Please come on down with me to the vabulous vault! Get it? Vabulous? See how I worked that?"

Swaying her hips and humming a tune, the girl exited her station and led me to the other end of the bank. All the while, she cheerfully greeted coworkers, jabbered about holiday plans, and complained about her recently purchased labradoodle puppy. So on top of her hummingbird like thoughts, I had to also endure her nails-on-the-chalkboard voice.

Lovely, wonderful, made me want to drive a spike into her head just to see how she'd react.

"Ow," she gasped and stumbled, "ouchy migraine. Like, total owie."

Her fingers pressed against the bridge of her nose to relieve the pain. I flashed back to the man bumbling about outside. I assumed he was my handiwork but had no proof. If I wanted proof, then now was the opportunity. Trying my damnedest not to smile too broadly, I imagined driving another spike into the woman's head.

She winced as if by my command. "Oooo, this is so not good. I'm sorry ma'am, but I sometimes get these headaches and they're so killer, you know?"

Hm, so I could do more than just listen to unfiltered garbage from people's brains. Lovely, and it would've been even more lovely if this girl didn't think the cure to migraines was opening her mouth and letting the inane particles known as her brain come out to bother the rest of us.

Headaches? Oh yes you annoying gnat, "I know all about headaches, Ms..."

I glanced at her nametag. "... Jubilation Lee."

"Please, call me Jubilee," she insisted as she started back toward the vault. "Only my high school teacher ever called me Jubilation, and between you and me, she was a real pain in the you-know-what."

A pain in this motor mouth's ass? I liked the woman already.

She took a large breath to prepare herself for another tirade. My eyes swept the room to see how many witnesses would see me breaking her neck, but then we arrived at our destination. She opened the barred door with her keys and led me to the closed vault.

A bit of trivia suddenly leapt the forefront, inducing me to ask, "Isn't the vault suppose to be kept open during business hours?"

"Wicked new tech," Jubilation smirked. "Instead of having to walk inside to get to your safe deposit box, there's retina and fingerprint scanners on the outside. You stick your face up into this contraption, put your thumb here, and in thirty seconds, your safe deposit box comes gently gliding out of a slot in the vault's door. It's like a jukebox, only not."

She seemed to think her jukebox comment was poignant; I couldn't gather the bubbly stupidity to agree with her. I settled for sticking my face up into this contraption, putting my thumb there, and waiting an uncomfortable thirty seconds as my brain continued to deep-fry itself from an overdose of babbling humanity.

"... and then, my friend was like 'No way!' and I'm all, 'Yup, that's how we Asians do it!' Ain't that cool? It's so chic, but you know all about chic, don't you? If you don't mind me saying, you're gorgeous. Are you a model? Have any tips for a girl like me? What if you don't t-"

"You want a tip?" I sweetly interrupted. The girl bobbed her head up and down at me. "Try sewing your lips together."

The range of emotions displayed ran the gamut with her. At first, she seriously considered my words. Then, her brows creased together, realizing such an act would be painful and unattractive. Surprise followed when she got the message that I'd told her to shut the hell up in a (slightly) less than direct fashion.

Finally, anger made her fold her arms and narrow her eyes. "Fine, be that way." At that moment, my safe deposit box decided to make its appearance. Jubilation snatched it from the slot and shoved it into me. "There's private rooms somewhere over there. Find 'em your own self, blondie."

I forced myself to not lash out at her. The further away she walk, the better my own headache felt. In the name of blessed relief, I let this battle go.

One of the security guards, privy to our brief exchange, winked at me. "Glad she's out of an earshot, no?"

Certainly, but I wasn't about to trade one talkative juvenile for another. Pretending I didn't hear him, I dashed to sign proclaiming "Private Rooms" next the vault. Much to my chagrin, said rooms amounted to one huge disappointment. Mahogany doors lined a hallway, but these phone booth sized closets allowed privacy from prying eyes and little else. Businessmen yammered on their cell phones; old ladies gasped as their oxygen tanks let go another puff of air; languages of all kinds floated about. I'd hoped on getting a measure of peace and quiet (after all, it had said "Private Rooms"), but I should've expected the letdown.

What I knew of my life was a letdown so far: female, English speaking, stubborn, masochistic, bitter, telepathic, violent, and cruel. Why couldn't I've been a simple but handsome man with no telepathic curse and a $4 million dollar bank account? Would've made things a whole lot easier.

No, I needed to stop complaining. Evaluate. Plan. Execute. No questioning. Neither the sickening sensation in my stomach nor my paranoia had subsided. This box could hold the reasons behind my dysphoria. For all I knew, this box was me. A little annoyance was nothing.

Staking a claim on one of the rooms in the back, I quietly set down the deceptively light load. I flicked open the latches, took a deep breath, and opened.

A bundle of passports glowered at me from the right.

A stack of money lingered on the left.

In the middle? A silenced pistol.

Before I knew it, I found myself thumbing through the passports. Each boasted a different name and country, yet they all had the same picture. Anna Voronin from Ukraine. Teri Espinoza from the Spain. Dinah Lance from South Africa. Emma Frost from France. Julianne Hodge from the United States. On and on down the line, every one of them heavily stamped and slightly worn.

The money? Euros in one pile (all €500s notes), dollars in another (all $100s bills). I pocketed them before moving onto the gun.

The moment my hand grasped it, I knew this weapon: Beretta 9000S, 9mm. It brought a small sense of comfort, a sense burgeoned when I ejected the clip and saw a full magazine. Familiar, safe, and as I rubbed my palm over the barrel, I shuddered and remembered...

_"Show yourself."_

_Savvy old man, this one. _

_"I don't know who you are, but I insist y-"_

_Between his words, I drew and shot him in the forehead. His entire body jerked backwards as a thin jet of blood and gray matter exited his skull. His wheelchair backed up a couple feet. So this was how one of the world's most powerful telepaths died: killed in his own mansion by me._

_I felt numb, without pride or remorse. _

_By the window, a figure stepped out of the darkness. Glowing red eyes pierced the darkness. "That is why I love you."_

_"Because I'm a decent shot?"_

_"No," she whispered, "for your fire. Pure Hellfire." She puckered her lips, kissed a photograph, and let it flutter onto the dead body. "Give us a kiss, baby."_

I wasn't numb anymore. Beyond my fear, disappointment grew exponentially. The gun, my skills, the passports, my knowledge--they pointed toward an assassin's past. To think, I was a cold-blooded killer running from... from who? My enemies? My friends? The woman with glowing red eyes?

It made no difference.

I flicked the safety off of the pistol. I could stop running here and now if I put a bullet in myself. No more problems or questions, just a blissful nothing I longed for. I didn't want my heart to be speeding, my mind to be scattered, and worries of unknown proportions robbing me of peace. I might not have deserved said peace, but I needed it.

I didn't want to be like this. I didn't want to live this clueless, scum of the universe kind of life.

As I pressed the gun against my temple, a glint on the deposit box's lid twinkled. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, but my curiosity wouldn't shut up. Either that or my self-preservation obsessed body wouldn't cooperate. Acquiescing a tiny bit, I glanced at the lid and saw a pair of platinum rings taped to it.

Wedding bands.

I waited for another memory to wash over me, but it didn't come. They stirred no emotions, only bewilderment. Those rings didn't belong in this box because they couldn't be used by a killer. Why would a memento even be-

Suddenly, the mental voices got louder, joined by a new group who entered the bank. Unlike this place's patrons, these voices were focused on one task and much more disciplined. They exuded a single minded determination to accomplish their goal: capture Emma Frost.

The same Emma Frost from Paris, France staring at me from one of my opened passports.

_Run._

The gun got tucked into my waistband while the passports and rings went in my bulging jacket pockets. Knowing these rooms offered no protection, I stepped out and tried to exit the front entrance. Unfortunately, police poured in through there. The bank manager demanded to know what was going on only to be shouted down. Words like "_terrorist_" and "_murderer_" filtered into my mind as they demanded everyone stay still.

Not about to obliged them, I took advantage of their commotion and walked up a flight of stairs. A large sign proclaiming "Employees Only" was meant to deter people from continuing further; the security guard at the top was meant to catch those brave enough to ignore the warning.

And this guard, unlike the one at the front, was a professional who looked every bit the part. "You can't come up here."

Burly, well-trained, and overly manly. I assumed the role of the frightened damsel. "There's men dressed as police robbing the bank! Oh please help, they have guns!"

Fake and weak, I know, but the guard didn't hesitate. He grabbed his walkie talkie, motioned for me to continue up, pulled out his baton, and thundered down the stairs. He'd be back up here in a few brief moments, but a few brief moments allowed me to get to the second floor.

Bank employees flooded this wide open space. Word of the police hadn't come to them yet; none caught my exchange with the guard. Spotting a fire escape in the back, I wove through the desks and cubicles. To make myself harder to pick out, I took off my coat and carefully wrapped it around my waist. Despite the overflow of harried workers, I found myself dodging them easily. Split seconds before any collision, I'd sense which way a person would move: my body responded appropriately before I could even process the information.

I felt like an arrow gliding through the air. Elation sparked within me as my being worked in harmony with itself. The fear and disappointment slipped away...

And then came back in full force when I sensed police racing up the fire escape. I spun on my heel and decided to continue ascending the bank, but something stopped me.

Well, not something, more like someone.

The first thing I noticed: long, flame red hair. We'd bumped into each other, her surprised by my sudden turnabout, me surprised because I hadn't sensed her. Still couldn't sense her. She was like a calm in the storming mental ocean and I didn't know what to think. Friend? Enemy?

The fire escape burst open to reveal three cops, all huffing and puffing from exertion. Deep, hypnotizing green eyes widening, the redhead's gaze shifted from them to me. Any moment she'd put the pieces together, see I didn't have a nametag, and yell "Over here!" to my pursuers. Not taking the chance, I tried to slip behind her.

I said tried because she firmly snared my wrist. "_I can help you._"

Her lips didn't move but somehow I knew the voice belonged to her. A comforting aura extended from her to me, a feeling so foreign I rejected it.

Yet her hand didn't budge. "_I know this is weird, but trust me. I don't let fellow mutants down._"

Mutant? Is that what I was? What was a mutant?

My panicking didn't put her off though. "_I can mask you from everyone else here. Just follow my lead and don't make any sudden moves_."

Given how the police yelled "Everyone be still, we're trying to find a criminal," it was too late to not listen to her. Sighing, I clenched my fists and waited for my inevitable discovery...

... and waited, and waited, and waited.

Not one of the bank's employees pointed me out as a suspicious person. A cop went by, looked me square in the face, and went on down the line. Even the security guard I'd duped earlier passed me without a hint of familiarity. If nothing else, I ended up rather bored at the scenario, what with me standing like a log and none of the authorities letting us leave.

I turned to my unexpected ally. "Thank you."

A radiant smile froze me in place. She didn't even say a word, just nodded and squeezed my hand. An inner fire warmed my cheeks and dried my throat. Everything about her sung to me, everything from her striking pantsuit to those stylish, rimless glasses resting on her cute nose. Unexpected flashes of me and other women superimposed itself on my vision. Sometimes I was naked; other times, we were naked. Always we moaned and writhed on ecstasy's cusp, unashamed and unrepentant.

Another fun fact about myself discovered: lesbian.

Maybe I thought that last word too hard or my body gave my attraction away, but the redhead suddenly found the floor very interesting. I sensed a bit of shyness, like a teenager caught staring at her crush. The sexual tension tugged at me, at us, and I liked it.

Loved it.

Needed it.

Almost... missed it?

The feeling, while welcome, was foreign. Well, not exactly foreign, more like forgotten. It wasn't a part of me but I had felt it before... that much I knew. Like riding a bike, I decided to let my instincts take over despite its thus far dubious track record.

I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze of my own. "What's your name?"

"Jean," she replied as she collected herself. "Jean Grey. You?"

"I think it's Emma Frost."

"You think?"

"It's a little complicated."

Her impish giggle sent flutters through my heart. "Mysterious, aren't you?"

That's one way to put it. "I could say the same thing about you."

"Attention please," one of the cops declared, "we're evacuating the building. In an organized fashion, please make your way to the front entrance of the bank. I repeat, in an organized fashion, please make your way to the front entrance of the bank. Thank you."

My unfortunate circumstances reasserted themselves, souring my mood and destroying any playfulness. I had a name and an address so my business in Zurich was done. Just in time too because whoever I ran from breathed down my neck. No way an operation like this was routine. No way a bunch of police would barge into a well established place of business and trample on it without any tact. My fear spiked, my sixth sense for trouble screaming one word.

_RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN!_

Jean's concerned voice raised above my mantra. "It's ok, Emma, I'm masking you."

_NO NO NO RUN RUN RUN RUN!_

Walking downstairs in a single file line reminded me of a death march.

_"Will you commit yourself entirely to this program?"_

The man with a ponytail glowered. Jean's hold on my wrist tightened like a handcuff. I tried to shrug her off but she ordered, "Follow my lead..."

_"... This is the point of no return. You will die, and in your place will be someone devoid of mercy. You will exist only for this program, for Hellfire."_

I'd answered yes before, but I wanted to answer no now. Down, down, down I marched, Jean's hand latched onto my wrist, my lungs unable to expand. A strong hand came to rest on my shoulder, pushing me forward...

... _but before I could even scream, they pulled a hood over my head and snapped a collar around my neck. The next thing I knew, I was drowning._

My tear soaked eyes cleared. Jean looked at me worriedly. The bank teller who'd helped me earlier, Jubilation Lee, talked to a dark haired woman wearing all black. Black pants, black coat, black sunglasses, and black shoes, only her ashen white skin stood out against the monochromic outfit.

I stopped, paralyzed.

_RUN!_

"_No!_" yelled Jean's telepathic voice. "_Emma, keep walking, don't give_-"

The black haired woman lowered her sunglasses and pieced me with her glowing red eyes. A devilish grin spread across her lips.

She blew me a kiss.

I bolted back up the stairs with Jean still latched onto me. Cries of "There she is!" erupted as I surged against the tide of people still leaving the second floor. To clear a path, I brandished my gun and waved it above my head, making it clear I was armed. Freaked out workers screamed and stood aside, none of them willing to play the hero.

Despite my breakneck pace, Jean stayed with me stride for stride. Three cops blocked our way back up, but instead of shooting them, I turned my pistol around and swung it like a club. I nailed two of them and let them stumble into their uninjured colleague. Bullets--not from me--whizzed by, some of them finding walls, others burrowing into innocents.

Instead of continuing to the fire escape which would've been heavily guarded, I dashed toward the second floor's large windows.

"Emma, what are you doing?!"

I rattled off four shots against the glass before kicking a convenient chair into it. The window shattered and in came a howl of freezing wind. Without stopping or letting go of Jean, I shoved my gun back into my waistband, scooped up a large chunk of glass, and jumped. The world went into slow motion.

My body twisted.

My arm stretched out.

Sharp glass met vinyl awning with a wide, arching slash.

Snow, Jean, and myself fell through as the glass went flying out of my hand.

We smashed into the first floor awning, bounced, and crashed onto the snow covered sidewalk.

Across the street? My car. The problem? It was penned in by police cruisers. Luckily, the associated police officers were busy inside the bank. That's when I felt Jean dragging me.

"Come on!" she huffed. "My car's in the alley up ahead!"

* * *

"This has to be her."

Magnus glared at the coroner. His bodyguards mirrored his displeased expression, but to the coroner's credit, he remained unphased.

"This is the only female body we've found in the vicinity. There's bullet wounds consistent with what you describe and she's only been dead for three days, five days max. Also, keep in mind she's been in the ocean and her features are marred and bloated."

"I know what my assassin looked like," growled Magnus. "You think I'd forget the woman who threatened to kill me and my children?! No, she is not the one."

"But sir-"

"I have been very accommodating to your government. I have not called attention to this fiasco nor have I left for Genosha without completing our trade negotiations. However, if this... this... inept investigation continues, rest assured I will make an international incident out of this. Mark my words, young man: don't bring me other corpses and try to convince me that it belongs to my failed assassin. Are we clear?"

An uneasy pause descended on the morgue as the two gaze at each other. The coroner nodded ever so slightly.

Magnus and his entourage stormed out of the room and slammed the door, almost tearing the thing off its hinges.

To that, the coroner sighed and took out his cell phone. "Hello? Yes, Magnus did not buy it for a second. Do we have Frost yet? You're working on it? That's not good enough. How am I suppose to get things done if you don't hold up your end of the mission? Don't curse at me, young lady, just bite your tongue and make it right. I'll stall him if he demands more results."

Antonio Ongaro, a.k.a. Scott Summers, hung up. He glared at the body under him before bringing his fist into its face, further disfiguring the already mutilated corpse. Goddamn Magnus, why did the emperor of Genosha have to be so exacting? Why couldn't he be like other politicians, stupid, dense, and arrogant?

And why did Emma fail her mission so spectacularly?

Shit, things were unraveling too quickly. Magnus demanded a body or an arrest, Director Shaw wanted this botched job swept under the rug, and the local operatives weren't cooperating. At least, the local operatives weren't competent. They weren't like Emma, cool, calculating, and effective. None of them would be her, and it was such a shame the new orders were to kill her.

"We never got to fuck," mumbled Scott.

He looked at the corpse under him and cocked his head. Long blonde hair. Decent tits. Nice wide hips. Not Emma, but with a little imagination...

* * *

She'd been driving for twenty minutes without a sign of pursuers. Having nothing to do took a toll as I was tiring out and breaking down, exhaustion seeping in. Need for sleep and recovery made my eyelids heavy. I'd black out for seconds only to be jolted awake by a bump in the road or a stop at a light. My mind refused to stop working though, intending on using the very last of my reserves. Mostly I imagined the dark haired woman at the bank, the nightmare who'd been haunting me every waking moment. I couldn't imagine what she'd done to me for such a reaction. Maybe I was better off not remembering. Maybe Jean could help me remember if I wanted to.

My head rolled to the right and watched her for a moment. She had this quiet strength radiating from her. Somehow, she felt safe. Was it her powers? What was a mutant? Why did she help me?

Mostly importantly, "You don't have a nametag."

The look she gave me was neither patronizing nor angry as I'd expected. Neutral perhaps? Ah, it was amused. "Forgotten my name already?"

"No," I muttered while fighting off sleep. "The bank employees... they all had nametags..."

Pinching the bridge of my nose hard gave me enough alertness to hear Jean sigh. "Always the quick one, weren't you?"

Her tone made no mystery of it. "You knew me."

"Hardly, but I did. You weren't an easy person to know."

If she wanted to kill me, I'd be dead. My murderous instinct didn't rear its ugly head around her. For now, she was the closest thing I had to a friend. "Who was I?"

A bitter laugh escaped her as she turned onto the expressway. "Who are you now?"

"I don't know," I frowned. Definitely wasn't in the mood for games or roundabout questions. "I can hear people's thoughts for some odd reason. I kill too easily to be anything but a trained murderer. I have this survival instinct that keeps me going when I want to lay down and die. I found out my name less than an hour ago. End of my life story."

"It's better than your previous life."

Summoning what I hoped to be some degree of menace, I demanded, "Let me be the judge of that."

"And you'd believe everything I say?"

"No, but at least I'd have an idea where to start."

"Start what?"

"Fighting back."

"You spent eight years fighting back. Where has it gotten you? A case of amnesia and a death sentence. Sometimes, you need to realize when to run."

That's what my brain told me too, but I couldn't, not when I could feel the past in my grasp, not when I could turn around and face it. I'd been awake for less than a day and I spent all of it running, hiding, and looking over my shoulder. This was no way to live. I might've been better off not remembering anything at all but things didn't turn out that way. I remembered some, enough to be frightened.

Apparently enough to be considered dangerous.

What was that saying? In for a penny...

"Jean, tell me what you know."

Frowning as if she were a longsuffering parent indulging a child, she kept her eyes glue on the road. Didn't stop her from talking though. "Eight years ago, both of us were recruited from the CIA to join a new black ops program codenamed 'Hellfire.' The objective was simple: covertly eliminate mutant or mutant related situations that threatened the United States."

That word again. "What are mutants?"

"Exactly what you think it means. We're human, but significant genetic variations have given us additional traits not associated with others of our species. Most of us become hideously deformed and are shunned from society. A handful actually get useful abilities with those deformities--increased strength, thickened skin, acute senses. The rare few like you and me have mutations that grant us powers but don't outwardly separate us from the masses."

"Are we... feared?"

"Yes."

"Ridiculed?"

"Constantly."

"How many?"

"Millions and more being born everyday."

"Then how come we don't-"

"Fight back?" Jean smiled. "We do and that's why Hellfire was formed. When a mutant went overboard, he or she had to be taken care of. With your high level of telepathy, you were Hellfire's perfect model of an assassin."

That's all I was? A killer of my own people? "Why?"

"I told you: telepathy. You can shield your mind from-"

"No, why did I join Hellfire? We were recruited together so you have to have an idea."

She bit her lip and tensed her shoulders. "Emma…"

Honest, I wanted to get angry again. From what I'd seen, Jean answered when my annoyance showed, but I couldn't get angry. My prior surge of energy petered out and another wasn't forthcoming. Staying awake and listening was hard enough. Getting angry? Not in the cards.

I resorted to another less consuming tactic. "Please?"

Her sidelong glances told me her walls crumbled fast. I had an effect on her as she did on me. Made me wonder if we were lovers? Unrequited, clandestine, or open?

"You lost your family," she said out of nowhere. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel to a bare-knuckle white. If this was my story, my tragedy, how come she seemed so invested in it? "From what I know, you were married and had three children, triplets, all age two. You never told me how or why, but I do know a mutant was responsible for their deaths. You were obsessed with revenge, with taking out your pain on as many mutants as you could. Hellfire took you in and gave you a means to your end."

She shook her head at the memory. "You didn't just kill. You tortured, you mangled, you violated, but at the time, our director accepted anyone he could get. I mean, there wasn't a long line of mutants willing to whore themselves to the CIA so they could kill their own. You were too precious to sever ties with but too violent to be useful, so we initiated an experimental conditioning program on you. It was meant to shut off certain emotions to increase objectivity, but there was a problem. Instead of shutting off select emotions, your limbic system overloaded, rendering you incapable of feeling emotions, period. In some respects, the project was a complete success, making you an efficient, ruthless killing machine incapable of disloyalty. In other respects, it killed you."

It explained a lot. The numbness. The palatable separation between my mind and body. It explained how I could kill so easily without feeling remorse. It explained my stubborn, driven, goal-oriented lines of thought. What it didn't explain was "Where do you fit in?"

"I did the conditioning."

Ah. "So you're helping me out of guilt?"

"Among other things."

"What would these other things be?"

"Go to sleep, Emma."

The rest of the drive continued in silence.

* * *

_Four hours later…_

"… one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three…"

Jubilee slammed her head against the passenger side window, vaguely hoping it would coax her brain out of her ear. They'd been cooped up in this stolen beamer for hours and all her crazy bitch of a companion did was be a total… well… bitch. So the bitch loved to chant "one, two, three" in a merry tone. Great. So she was one of Hellfire's big wigs, and thus, the superior officer. Fine. The thing Jubilee couldn't take?

The bitch's mad cackling. It wasn't a sound, more like a force of nature. It boiled blood, shattered glass, killed small animals, and never ended. She didn't stop, and when asked to stop, she went nuts. Like violent nuts. Like tear your jaw off with her hands, break it in half, and jab the pointy bone into your eye socket nuts.

Jubilee tried hard not to look into the backseat or think about the smell emanating from there.

The bitch's smile widened. In between giggles, she asked, "Are you ready, little Jubilee?"

Oh thank God, a break in the monotonous storm. "To put a bullet in Frost's head and be done with this mission? Yes."

"No, no, no Jubilee dearest, not put a bullet in Emma's lovely head, no, no, no. I mean, are you ready to play your role?"

"What role? Director Shaw himself ordered-"

"Director Shaw," the bitch laughed, "what Director Shaw doesn't realize is that Emma can't die unless I say so. Director Shaw can give all the orders, but a little butterfly like you, Jubilee, will not be the one doing the killing. Dearest, your role is to try, nothing more. Try and fail."

Ok, "With all due respect, Selene-"

"Ah, not just Selene to you, little Jubilee: Assistant Director Selene."

"Assistant Director Selene," Jubilee bit out, images of the corpse in the backseat keeping her temper in check, "why do I have to fail? Frost isn't anything close to what her file claims. I can kill her. I could have killed her at the bank this morning if I wanted to."

"I taught Emma, silly Jubilee. I made her. I know how she works. I know even as a shadow of herself, you can't kill her. Just play your role, deliver my message, and let me handle the rest."

"Message? What message?"

The car came to a sudden stop. "We're here."

Here was the front door of an Occidental Hotel. French sprawled across the street signs and shop stores. Emma Frost's last known address was in Paris, but Paris this was not.

Before Jubilee could even ask a question, Selene produced two pictures from her pocket. "Targets: Emma Frost and Jean Grey. Room 333. Play your role."

Wait a damned second, "How do you know which room they're in? Where'd you get those pictures? What's all this about your message? I'm smelling fi- ack!"

Selene's hand struck with a cobra's speed and wrapped around Jubilee's throat. The maniacal look in her eyes never faded nor did the amusement in her voice dull. If her grip weren't crushing, this could've passed for a conversation between friends. "You know what you need to know. Now, give us a kiss, baby."

* * *

_- To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: Thank you for your continued patience with me! Life has gotten very busy and fanfiction has officially become a "backburner" kind of activity. Hope you enjoy this newest offering!

* * *

_**The Frost Identity**_

by Yimmy

_Chapter 3_

* * *

"… reports three bank employees injured, two undisclosed deaths, and a brief glimpse of the suspect on the security camera. As you can see, our suspect has a hostage and-"

Magnus put his young daughter down as he stared at the television. That was her, the failed assassin! Blonde hair, a fluid gait, and empty eyes—he'd never forget the split second they'd spotted each other, her brandishing a pistol on the balcony, him playing with his children as he was now. He tried to tear the pistol out of her hands, but the cursed woman's gun wasn't metal. That split second shock allowed her to fire, but she didn't.

For some forsaken reason, she hesitated.

Then someone shot her one, twice, the third missed. None of his guards were in the room so his assassin's assailant had to come from the outside, but he didn't care. Not wasting such a golden opportunity, he grabbed Pietro and Wanda and lunged behind the bed. He vaguely remembered roaring "GUARDS" at the top of his lungs. Using his powers, he ripped a piece of copper pipe out of the wall and hurled it toward the balcony. There was a sharp ding of metal on bone just as a giant boot pulverized the hotel door, Cain Marko, Elisabeth Braddock, and Kurt Wagner charging through not a second later. His trio of royal guards would later tell him they saw the woman tumble over the balcony's railing and fall into the Mediterranean's waters.

Despite teleporting all over the shores, Kurt couldn't find the body.

Despite intensive scanning before, during, and after the failed attack, Elisabeth sensed nothing.

But the assassin was on the television now, proof positive she'd survived and that the Italian government was inept. Time for diplomatic niceties were over. Genosha might've been a fledgling nation, but it was a loyal nation, entrenched in pride born from scorn and hatred. Magnus loved his people and in return his people loved him.

He'd find this assassin and show the world Genosha would not be trifled with. For mutants everywhere, for his children, he had to succeed.

* * *

Two hours into my sleep, the nightmares woke me. Blood, so much blood, and I bathed in it. Pained shrieks and nebulous pleading wrapped around me like a shroud while the blood kept coming. I remembered no faces, but I knew my victims ran the gamut when it came to ages because of the brief glimpses of their mutilated bodies. The worst part? In my dreams, I silently watched. I made no attempt to get away or apologize. I didn't laugh at the pitiful wailing or revel in the gore at my feet. I just was, and while that might've been good enough for me a few days ago, it wasn't anymore.

Blame it on fear that's been eating me alive.

Since then, I'd been sitting in bed looking at these wedding bands. If Jean wasn't asleep, I would've asked her more about me. She supposedly rummaged through my brain to stop my sociopath tendencies: she must've seen something. Who was I married to? What were my children's names? What was I like before I became this killer?

I couldn't imagine myself a dotting mother, fawning over little girls' hair and driving them to doctor's appointment. I couldn't imagine myself much of anything besides this murdering automaton.

I slipped the smaller ring on. No memory, no emotion, but it was a perfect fit. The second, slightly larger, much more worn ring remained as quiet as its companion. Who did it belong to? Why was it worn? Who in their right mind would love me?

My eyes settled on the bed next to mine: Jean. Our relationship was more than what she claimed, but how much more? Why did she go through so much trouble for me? Subtle breathless moments, inflections in certain words, and a subconscious quirk of always keeping me close spoke of her attraction. Conversely, she made me feel safe; more than once, I found myself trying to explain her actions in the best light possible.

There had to be something more.

Holding my breath, I snuck out from under the covers and went to her. As luck would have, her arms were splayed out over the blankets allowing me a perfect view of her left ring finger.

A left ring finger with a white loop of flesh at its base.

Was she my… wife? That's why she would brave this "Hellfire" group for me. That's why her breath hitched when I looked at her a certain way. That's why I couldn't stop staring at her and wanting to hold her in my arms. Her red hair just drew me to her like a moth to flame.

Hold it, hold it, getting ahead of myself. Plenty women wore rings and not all of them were married to me (at least, I hoped not). Were same sex marriages legal in where I was from?

Carefully, I took her hand in my own, lifted her finger up, and put the ring on.

Shit, it was too loose. Whereas mine used a bit of force to get past my knuckle, this one dangled, ready to drop. Not my wife or significant other. Shit.

I pocketed the ring and flopped back onto the bed. Yet another gap in my mind unfilled, and with it came defeat. This puzzle known as my life refused to come together and I had just about enough.

Suddenly, the door to the hotel room burst open. While Jean bolted up, startled, I rolled to the floor. I sensed no one coming in the door but I distinctly heard footsteps. Our assailant must've come with mental shielding, but that was the least of my worries. What I had to get over were the blinding sparks shooting in my general direction.

Every multicolored speck combusted into a brilliant flash, shaming even the sun's light. Ear splitting screeches made hearing impossible. Despite the dark blots clouding my vision and the sharp headache threatening to cripple me, I fished out my gun, pointed at the door, and squeezed off four rounds, each of soaring under the bed.

One hit wall.

Another hit door.

The third hit a foot.

The last one hit an ankle.

Toward the door, a "Fucking bitch!" rose above the chaos.

I knew that voice. Checking my gun (three bullets left), I jumped up and put her writhing form in my sights.

Ms. Jubilation Lee clutched her bleeding wounds.

I called over my shoulder, "Jean?"

Somewhere to my left and close to the ground, I heard, "I'm ok!"

By all accounts, my heart should've been racing. My deep breaths should've coincided with Jean's and Jubilation's. I should've been wide eyed, questions spewing out of my mouth on why I was attacked. I should've been a wreck, but I wasn't. With a clinical detachment, I noted no further threats coming from the hallway, Jubilation raising her gun at me, and a split second decision to be made.

Kill or be killed.

I fired into her forehead. The girl jerked once and lie motionless. Me, I eased the door as closed as it was going to get in its battered state and immediately began searching the body. Gun? No, one was enough, though I did scavenge the bullets and extra magazine. Tucked in each boot were bloody knives not worth my time. No identification. No keys. Only photos.

Grainy and blurred, they had to be from security cameras. A disconcerting fact? The background resembled the hotel's lobby. How did she get these? Was someone in this hotel associated with Hellfire? I was being baited, first to the Swiss National Bank where everyone in the world seemed to be waiting for me, then here were my enemies knew when I'd be checking in.

Jean's hand came to rest on my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

_I tried to shrug off the people holding my shoulders still. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."_

The brief, reoccurring image sent shivers through me. "Fine," I mumbled unsteadily. Before she could press further, I changed the subject. "Did you sense her?"

"Dampening bracelet," she replied, "it's how nontelepathtic Hellfire agents get the drop on telepaths."

"How come I could read her when we were at the bank?"

"She was at the bank?"

"She got my safe deposit box for me."

"Damn it, they're a step ahead of us."

"Hellfire?"

"If we're lucky."

"Who else could be after me?"

Not answering, Jean scooped up her coat and tossed me mine. "I'll tell you in the car, but we have to get to Paris as soon as possible. We need to find out why you failed your last mission."

A strange burning lingered on my shoulder, exactly where Jean touched me. At first, I chalked it up to arousal, but the longer it stayed, the more I realized it wasn't turning me on. Bile rose in the back of my throat. Things seemed to crawl under my skin. Her touch on my shoulder was revolting, but one look into her bottomless green eyes quieted my physical unease… not so much my mental unease.

Another question to answer. Great.

* * *

"I'm sorry, your Highness, but there is no Antonio Ongaro in the database."

"You're certain?" asked Magnus as he paced about.

Running another search, Kitty Pryde nodded. "He's nowhere on the government payroll and there's no record of any coroner with that name. There isn't even a medical examiner with that name."

No wonder the damned investigation amounted to nothing: one of his many enemies was leading him around. Idiot, should've done this earlier, should've not listened to this damned government and their obsession over doing things the old fashioned way.

"Who has the most to gain from these negotiations failing?"

"Your Highness?"

Despite his assistant's puzzlement, Magnus continued his pacing. "The European Union is in a advantageous position, establishing trade with Genosha. They may be flatscans, but even the dullest of them realize the potential a nation of homo superiors can offer."

"But someone shot your attacker," Kitty pointed out, "and we're sure it wasn't one of our people."

"Why plant a false coroner in the Italian police? Why go through all that trouble?"

"Maybe there's more than one enemy at work?"

"Of that, Ms. Pryde, we can be certain." Magnus stopped pacing. Suddenly, his eyes went wide. "Ms. Braddock detected nothing of the woman that night."

"No, your Highness."

"Retrieve Charles Xavier's file."

"You think it's the work of the same assassin?"

"My dear friend, Charles, was the most powerful mind on the face of this planet and Ms. Braddock is not far behind. Even with the best of technology, completely eluding their senses is impossible."

"You suspect mutant involvement?"

"It's my best explanation. Then the question still remains: who has the most to gain from these negotiations failing?"

"The United States and China," Kitty offered. "They made their interest in Genosha known, and when we chose to only talk to Europe, they weren't happy. However, only the U.S. has a black-ops organization with even a hope of getting past our defenses."

"Antonio Ongaro and the United States will be your starting point. I'll have Mr. Marko and Ms. Braddock track the assassin." Magnus slammed his callused hands onto the desk. "My children will not live in fear because of me."

* * *

I couldn't stop looking at the photos. Enemies closed in all sides, distrust shadowed my every thought, and I had no chance. I was a lab rat caught in a maze, unable to control my environment. These photos… these goddamn photos, they told me how little power I had. Why run? Why even live?

"Why are we even going to Paris?" I wondered aloud.

"That was your home in Europe."

I rolled my eyes. "Jean, does it matter? I'm in a play where I'm the only person not privy to the script."

"Emma, you can't give up. That's exactly what Hellfire wants."

Hellfire wanted me to give up? I furrowed my brow, a sudden idea springing to life. "You said you killed my emotions. How come I'm feeling worn and exhausted? How come the more I stay awake, the more I feel? How come Hellfire knows they can break me?"

Silence from Jean. I looked expectantly at her, Jean my only guide in this mess, Jean the only real tie to my past. I tried to take some comfort in her presence, but the distrust wouldn't go away. The remembrance of her hand on my shoulder shortened my breaths almost as if I was drowning. Her dead stare reminded me of the man with a ponytail, my own echoing voice, and-

The car hit a bump and the photos flew out of my grasp. I bent over to pick them up and that's when I saw three words scrawled across the back in permanent marker.

Celeste.

Mindee.

Phoebe.

I wanted to ask Jean if these were my daughters' names, but the drowning feeling reared its head with a vengeance. I took deep breaths and clutched my chest—useless. Dark spots filtered into my vision just as the photos took another tumble to the car floor. My heart threatened to explode. I grabbed at her arm but she kept driving, eyes ahead, no reaction. I… I…

_… watched them sleep in their crib. They wore identical blue denim overalls and seemed to breathe in synchronization. Tufts of blonde hair sat atop their cute, chubby heads. Then, Celeste blinked. Her sky blue eyes locked onto me. She looked puzzled for a moment as she searched her infant memory for remembrances of me. Eventually she realized who I was and gurgled with joy. Mindee and Phoebe both started at the sound, neither happy with their sister if their little frowns were anything to go by. Sensing Phoebe the more displeased, I gathered her in my arms and kissed her forehead. She smiled…_

_… and said, "Mommy?"_

_The girls were taller now, a little above my knee. They acted like three peas in a pod, always together and always scheming to get the most out of their mommy. Like right now for instance, what with each girl holding a bag of unopened Heresy's Kisses in their arms._

_"Can we?" Mindee asked._

_The bags sported chew marks; their faces were a little too expectant. I bent down and asked them, "What time is it?"_

_"Oh oh oh!" giggled Celeste as she projected an image of the living room clock reading "4:37" into my mind. Her sisters frowned at her as I laughed._

_"Very good, Celeste, but you know I want you to say it instead of think it. You'll be in pre-school soon and other people won't know what to do if you don't say it. So, tell me, what time is it?"_

_"Umm… four…"_

_I glared at Mindee. "No helping Celeste."_

_That got a proper chastised look from my two schemers. Celeste, truly the most innocent of my brood, bit her lip and thought real hard. "Four… thirty… one, two, three, four, five, six, seven! Seven! Four thirty seven!"_

_"And four thirty seven is close to what time?"_

_"Dinner time!" they chimed at once._

_With reflexes none of them expected, I snatched the three bags of candy from them and opened one. "That means I don't want any of you ruining your appetites. So, one for you, one for you, one for you…"_

_"… and two for me," I chuckled at my tummy._

_Ok, I felt like a beached whale and none of my clothes fit anymore, but do you know what the perk was to being pregnant? Craving about anything and eating it too. No more personal trainer looking over my shoulder and counting calories to keep my figure, no more compulsion to be perfect—pregnancy was gluttony at its finest. Might as well enjoy the food now since many of my other vices were beyond my reach._

_But those were choices I made for my children._

_Children. I smiled at the idea. I never imagined myself a mother, not with the childhood I had. I loathed children, but now, I couldn't find it in my heart to even frown at the three little ones in me. I'd do better than my parents, I'd care for my daughters, I wouldn't leave to cry themselves to sleep at night, I would give them a better life than mine. I chalked it up to maternal instincts, but I knew my change of heart had a large part to do with my wife._

_Married with children, Emma Grace Frost—funny ring and not a description any friend or acquaintance would've used on me. Times changed though, and so did people. As I put down the bowl of jelly beans I'd almost inhaled, I looked to my right to spy a wealth of blood red hair spilling out from under the covers. Poor baby, must've had a long day. I'd peek into her mind to see if she was feeling even a little frisky, but doing it the old fashioned way was much more fun._

_"Honey?" I purred, slowly turning on my side. "I have a surprise for you."_

_Some grumbling followed a stubborn burrowing into the blankets._

_"Big bad secret agent don't want to get up, huh?"_

_Mischievous grin overwhelming me, I fumbled around, found a patch of skin on a sensitive area, and pinched. A high pitched shriek echoed against the bedroom walls while she bolted up and pounced on me. The covers fell away and…_

… I slammed my head against the front dash, still unable to breathe. Jean's hair was all wrong in relation to my fractured memories. Too long, too fiery, not crimson. She hadn't looked me even though I was gasping like a fish out of water. Why hadn't she looked me? Why was she so focused almost as if… if…

She was the one choking me.

Her lips turned up in a sinister smile. "Telekinesis is my second power. I can control objects down to the subatomic level if I concentrate enough. It's one of the reasons Hellfire chose me. It's also the reason I was accepted into the Inner Circle."

A foreign voice, equal parts playful and deadly, entered my mind. Its words were one-sided, like listening to one end of a phone conversation.

_Black ops._

_Hellfire's long, violent arm._

_Murderers some would say._

_A secret group within a secret organization with aspirations of world domination._

_Best of the worst mutantkind had to offer._

_Monsters perhaps, but definitely not human._

_There's a license to kill and a license for overkill. Guess which one these fuckers have?_

_They need to be taken down a peg._

_They need to be taken out._

_Easier said than done._

_Someone needs to do it._

_Relax, I don't fail._

_Don't feed the girls too much candy and tell 'em Mama will be back for Christmas._

_Come here and give us a kiss, baby. _

I lashed out at her but an invisible force smashed me against the passenger side door. Whatever precious air I had left rushed out of me.

"Sleep, Emma. When you wake up, you'll know why you exist."

As I glanced into the rearview mirror, a pair of glowing red eyes burrowed into me. Black hair billowed about, shielding the rest of the face. Despite not seeing a mouth, I could've sworn the lady smiled. The scene was all too familiar, but this time, I knew it wasn't a figment of my imagination.

* * *

- _To be continued..._


End file.
